Alice and the Imagination
Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland, whatever else you might think about it, is a tale of the importance of imagination. (Beware spoilers below if you’ve not yet seen the film.)
Yes, there are many departures from Carroll’s tale; that is, in fact, much the point of what Burton is doing. The film opens with Alice having the dream that we’ve all come to know and love as Carroll’s stories. They are, however, “just dreams,” and with the way we think about truth and fiction these days, a “dream” = “not real.”
Burton’s story tells the opposite. Alice has grown up. She’s about to be engaged to a man her family has arranged her to marry. She doesn’t really know how to handle all the confusion relationships with people around her, especially now that her father has passed away. There in the gazebo, as the proposal is about to happen, she sees the rabbit and follows.
Her entire journey through Underland is taken up with one particular question: “Is this real, or is this only in my head?” (If you’re a Harry Potter fan, that dilemma should sound familiar, by the way.) The ultimate answer she has to come to terms with is: It’s both; there’s no dichotomy between the two. When she meets Absalom (brilliantly voiced by Alan Rickman), he tells her that she is “hardly Alice,” which everyone takes to mean that the white rabbit has brought the wrong Alice to Underland. This is not what Absalom meant at all. He meant that the Alice standing there was in need of understanding who she was as Alice and to embrace it.
Which she does. And the key to understanding reality is her imagination. Her final battle with the Jabberwock is not strength against strength, but imagination against power. The Jabberwock is by far the physically stronger champion in the battle, but Alice has finally chosen to believe in six impossible things. She counts the 5 that she has already come to believe, and embraces the 6th on the spot: “I can defeat the Jabberwock.”
In her return to the “real” world, she walks into the exact same situation she left: suitor, gazebo, large audience waiting for the engagement to happen. But this time, she’s in control of the situation, knowing who she is as a human being, and who she is as Alice.
It’s a story that vindicates choice, faith, and imagination, and it’s told with stunning visual artistry. Alice’s experience in Faerie (for that is precisely what Underland is) makes her more human and gives her a better grip on reality. This is what the best fairy tales do. They’re not an escape from reality, but an escape to greater reality.
(For anyone interested, I’ve written a little more about the film here.)
A.S. Peterson has crafted a work of compelling historical fiction which begs the question, “Can this really be a debut novel?” With dogged fidelity, Peterson captures the spirit, manners, and social conditions present during the American Revolutionary War. We meet colorful, credible characters who navigate the high seas of life and love, dependence and independence, war and peace, truth and consequence, and despite forays into dark places, The Fiddler’s Gun is beautiful, lyrical, and redemptive.
Walt Wangerin, Jr. strikes again.
Janner Igiby lives in Glipwood, a nothing little village in the land of Skree, on the edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness. Manhood is on the horizon, but Janner finds it hard to feel much hope for the future. Skree is ruled by foreign oppressors, snake men called the Fangs of Dang, servants of a shadowy emperor named Gnag the Nameless. The Skreeans are weak and weaponless. They’re even tool-less. Any Skreean who needs to use a hoe has to borrow one from the Fangs (and fill out the requisite paperwork). And from time to time, the Black Carriage arrives in Glipwood to carry young Skreeans toward an unknown fate across the Dark Sea.
I am not a fan of Civil War literature; in fact, I have always thought of it as one of those weird sub-genres for obsessive types. They’re almost like Trekkies with their re-enactments and maniacal devotion to detail. It’s just not my thing (although I’m secretly jealous that they get to dress up and shoot cannons).
A Randall Goodgame song is like a great independent movie. Characters deliver lines like they were lifted from a break room, a truck stop, or a downtown diner. Seemingly incongruent scenes are juxtaposed and plot isn’t obvious; in fact, narrative–a good story–is often more evident than linear plot lines. An indie movie, like a Randall Goodgame song, seems to tell itself. Rather than being rudely yanked by a chain through a sequence of contrived events, with a Randall Goodgame song, I have the sense that I’m being allowed a willing, but vicarious sneak peak into the real lives of his real characters.
Sara Groves irritates me just a little bit. With each album she makes, she moves from strength to strength and is always raising the bar with the quality, depth, and lyrical ambition of her work. And as a fellow artist, that’s just a little irritating since it means the rest of us are going to have to work harder if we hope to keep up.
I am outside on my front porch. The yellowed leaves are methodically falling from the black walnut in the yard, my breath is chalky visible in the recent cold snap, and lately I have been exploring the unpleasant nuances of the dark night of a soul - my own, to be exact. It is a strange passion we live out on this over-glorified orb of rock hurtling through space at some rate that I’m sure would astound me were I to know what it was. It is an odd series of days, I am realizing, when you question your own faith more than you question your own doubt. And, indeed, it is these nagging questions which have prompted me to share my thoughts on Andrew Peterson’s 2003 album, Love and Thunder.
11-year old Reuben Land, a character in the 2001 book Peace Like a River, provides narration that is clear-eyed and insightful, yet retains the magic, wonder, and innocence of youth. I found it easy to entrust my imagination to the author’s clever method of telling the story through the sensibilities of a pre-teen boy. An author with lesser skill would have either made the boy too smart-alecky for his own good or impossibly cute.
I just finished a book that upon closing it, I felt like it finished me in a sense. A quiet meditative book that reached down and stirred the deep waters in me. It’s Marilynne Robinson’s 2005 Pulitzer prize winner Gilead, given to me by my friend Andrew Peterson.
Eric Peters’s body of work addresses a diverse range of topics, but hope is a recurring theme that gently percolates in the midst of it all. And yet, somewhere between the 2001 masterpiece Land of the Living, and Scarce, the flavor of hope that Peters’s work emits has evolved closer to a tone that is more resolute than what came before. And though the complexion of hope has a broad range, the lyrics from Scarce–while intermittently contrite and timorous as in previous efforts, are now strengthened and bolstered by roots that have grown deeper, radiating an underlying grit and security.
Having read The Great Divorce many times over the years, I’ve found this classic from the great C.S. Lewis to be full of startling clarity and depth on the differences between Heaven and Hell. The only thing both have in common is that both begin in the human will; we can either let Heaven enter us and rule in us to blossom into love and goodness, or allow Hell to infect and reign in our hearts by the daily refusal to submit to Heaven.
Even if you haven’t heard Room to Breathe, its still likely you’ve heard Andy Gullahorn. He’s what I’d call a heavy lifter by trade. He writes lyrics, plays guitar, arranges vocals and adds production help to the work of artists like Jill Phillips and Andrew Peterson.
Allow me to preface this by telling you that I am a great despiser of gushing reviews. I’d much rather write (or read) a scathing dismemberment of the latest Brett Ratner film or Terry Goodkind book than suffer through four hundred words of overblown hyperbole about even the best of things. But when asked to write some thoughts on Frederick Buechner’s Godric, no amount of distaste for high praise was able to intervene. I hope you’ll take what I say with the understanding that I do not say it readily or lightly.
Thanks so much, Travis, for this wonderful post. Mr. Burton’s statement that this movie was made in the spirit of the book was spot on. If we could glimpse Alice as she embarks upon her adult life, she would be this person. And, yes, having the one person who most understood and affirmed her lost to her would definitely cause doubt even while she clung desperately to the mooring of his memory and their conversations.
Over the course of the weekend (we saw the Saturday matinee), this lovely movie made for some very interesting conversations in our house. Your statement, “It’s a story that vindicates choice, faith, and imagination …” is absolutely correct. Those six things Alice was determined to accept? She was declaring what she understood, not what others in her life might believe or not believe. And isn’t that what life is about? In fact, isn’t that what we as followers of Jesus are about? We come into our own when we identify and declare our foundation, then move forward with those rock-solid beliefs helping guide our way.
I loved Alice’s phenomenal compassion, as well as her decision to actively participate rather than just do as she’s told, and my husband believes the movie will empower girls (anyone, actually) who may not have anyone who believes in them.
You concluded, “Alice’s experience makes her more human and gives her a better grip on reality. This is what the best fairy tales do. They’re not an escape from reality, but an escape to greater reality.” Yes! What greater reality is there than the grace of God infusing everyone’s lives with love? And what greater cause can we have than to be true to whom we were made to be, using the gifts, strengths, and skills bequeathed us as we reach out in love to those around us?
Thank you, Tim Burton, for a beautiful, fantastic film; and thank you, Travis, for a marvelous, insightful review.
All of Heaven’s best to you and yours,
Margret
Travis (and Margret),
Great thoughts on the film. And this is another reason I value this community: I wasn’t crazy about the film until I read your thoughts on it. I guess I’m still not crazy about it, but now I know I want to experience it again, and will do so with better eyes.
Tim Burton is a gifted filmmaker, but other than Big Fish, none of his movies have moved me. I’m caught up in the whimsy and the weird, gothic beauty of his vision, but there always seems to be a missing ingredient. I can’t tell what it is. But it’s missing. In this case, I guess the missing ingredient was Travis’s insight.
I took my 10-year-old to see it, and he had a ball. So there’s that.
AP
I thought that the film was a visual masterpiece. The only thing I’ve seen that’s better is Avatar. It will be one that you’ll buy on DVD and watch again several times. I wonder how it was in 3D.
Now, I didn’t see it in 2D, but my suspicion is that 3D didn’t add a lot for this one - at least not as much as it did for Avatar. I’d have to see the 2D version to be sure, though.
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The 3-D didn’t bother me, which I found pleasing. I don’t know if it added anything that you couldn’t get in 2-D, although there were bits that worked really well in 3-D.
Another excellent review, Travis. I’ll only make one quibble. I find the word “choice” to be not helpful because in common parlance nowadays, “choice” seems to mean “I’ll do whatever I want & nobody can say a thing about it.” It’s a very selfish way we use “choice” these days, highly individualistic. But I thought Alice’s “choices” in the film were very self-sacrificial ones. As she came to understand more of who she was & her place in Underland, she stopped thinking of herself so much & started acting for others.